The Silver Eagle

Chapter XXVII: Alexandria

Three months pass.

Lake Mareotis, near Alexandria, winter 48 BC

Hiero was ecstatic. The long, difficult journey from Ethiopia was drawing to an end. All that remained was a relatively short voyage to Italy, and then he would be able to sell every last damn animal in his caravan. Another year of hard work was almost over, and the bestiarius would be heartily relieved when it was and his purse was bulging. After being trapped, the beasts had been transported hundreds of miles, by ship and in cages on wagons drawn by mules. The process had not been without its problems. It was simply not possible to capture so many creatures and confine them without some losses.

One of the giraffes had broken a hind leg in the bars of its enclosure and had to be killed. A number of antelope died without any apparent cause. Hiero knew from long experience that stress was the probable reason. It was the loss of a valuable bull elephant which pained the bestiarius most though. Panicking when his men tried to herd it on to one of the open, flat-bottomed transports, it had jumped into the sea, attracting attention of the worst kind. Even close to shore, there were always plenty of sharks about — hammerheads and other large types. Hiero had grown used to their constant presence at certain times of the year. Everyone had watched in awe as one daring shark had swum in and attacked the elephant. Feeling the first bite, the trumpeting bull became even more terrified and swam out further. It was a fatal mistake. Attracted by the blood staining the sea, more sharks soon arrived. By the end there were more than twenty, but it still took an age to kill the enormous creature. The piteous noises it made tore even at Hiero’s jaded heart. Eventually the elephant had succumbed though, a small grey island that bobbed back and forth in the reddened water.

But there were still reasons to be content, thought the bestiarius. Thanks to Romulus’ ministrations, the lion with the terrible leg wound had completely recovered. Many other animals, as well as injured slaves, had benefited from his and Tarquinius’ treatment. In truth, the expedition had been a resounding success. He had dozens of the more common animals like antelope and buffalo. As well as the big male, there were several other lions, four leopards, a giraffe and three elephants. But the greatest prize of all was a great armoured beast with a horn on its nose, something that Hiero had only ever heard of before. The rhinoceros had short legs for its size but could run faster than a man. Its immensely thick skin resembled metal plates, making it almost invulnerable. Possessed of poor eyesight but a keen sense of smell, the bad-tempered creature had gored two of his slaves to death when being captured. Others had been severely injured since.

That did not concern the bestiarius in the slightest. Such minor losses were all factored into his costs. If the gods continued to smile on him as they had up till now, his arrival at Alexandria would make him an even wealthier man. One or two more trips like this and he would be able to retire. Hiero stared surreptitiously at Romulus. Appearing out of the wilderness so unexpectedly, the young man and his quiet, scarred companion had been useful additions to his party. He had spent weeks trying to persuade them to stay on in his employ. While the pair had professed interest, the wily bestiarius had gathered that reaching Italy was their main aim. Still, he couldn’t complain. The work they had done had more than paid for their food and transport costs.

‘Well?’ he asked, stepping on to the shore. ‘What do you think of that?’

Romulus could scarcely believe his eyes. Beyond the far edge of the lake, the great walls stretched for miles. This, the capital founded almost three centuries earlier by Alexander of Macedon, was absolutely vast.

It had been so long since Romulus had seen a large city. The last had been Barbaricum, and before that, Seleucia. Yet the metropolis which sprawled from east to west dwarfed both. Even Rome, the heart of the mighty Republic, could not compare.

Tarquinius was lost for words. For him, reaching Alexandria was the culmination of a lifetime’s expectations. All those years before, Olenus had been correct. It was overwhelming — and frightening. Tarquinius felt as if fate were rushing in on him.

‘A magnificent sight, eh?’ cried Hiero. ‘Practically every street is wider than the biggest in Rome, and the buildings are made of white marble. And then there’s the lighthouse. Ten times taller than any house you’ve ever seen, yet it was built over two hundred years ago.’

‘Don’t forget the library,’ said the haruspex. ‘It’s the largest in the world.’

‘And?’ The bestiarius waved a dismissive hand. ‘What do I need with all that ancient learning?’

Tarquinius laughed. ‘You might not read it, but others do. Scholars come from far and wide to study here. There are books on mathematics, medicine and geography which cannot be found anywhere else.’

Hiero’s eyebrows rose in surprise. The slight, blond-haired man was constantly revealing new qualities. He and Romulus were obviously well educated, which had made their company far more appealing than that of Gracchus or any of his other employees. It was part of the reason that the bestiarius found himself discussing what to do with two strangers. They had spent long hours together on the journey, during which a certain level of trust had developed between them. Hiero had also come to fear Tarquinius a little, although he could not explain why.

‘Look,’ said Romulus.

A fine stream of smoke was rising into the air above the centre of the city.

‘That’s no household fire,’ breathed the bestiarius. ‘A large funeral pyre, perhaps?’

‘No,’ answered Tarquinius. ‘There’s a battle going on.’

Romulus stared in shock. This was most unexpected.

‘How could you know?’ Hiero demanded. He had seen no need to mention the civil war between Ptolemy and his sister Cleopatra, and his slaves knew little of such affairs.

‘It is written in the sky overhead,’ said the haruspex.

Unusually bereft of words, the old man’s mouth opened and closed.

Romulus hid a smile.

‘You’re a soothsayer?’

Tarquinius inclined his head.

Hiero looked aggrieved. ‘You never mentioned it before.’

Tarquinius’ dark eyes bored into the bestiarius. ‘I saw no need.’

Hiero swallowed noisily. ‘As you say.’

‘Who’s fighting?’ asked Romulus.

‘There’s been trouble recently between the king and his sister,’ interrupted Hiero, anxious to retain control. ‘It’s probably just some rioting. Nothing to worry about.’

Romulus studied the sky over the city. There was something there. A different air, was it? He wasn’t sure, but a bad feeling entered his mind and he looked away.

‘But foreign troops are involved,’ said Tarquinius.

‘Greek or Judaean mercenaries,’ Hiero responded triumphantly. ‘They’re commonly used in Egypt.’

‘No.’

Cowed by the haruspex’ ominous tone, Hiero fell silent.

‘I see legionaries, thousands of them.’

His countrymen, here? Romulus wanted to shout out loud with joy. ‘Romans fighting Egyptians?’ he cried.

Tarquinius nodded. ‘They are hard pressed, too. Badly outnumbered.’

Romulus was amazed by the strong urge to help that overcame him. Before, he would not have particularly cared what happened to Rome’s citizens, or its troops. After all, they cared little for slaves. But life had changed him. He was an adult now, bound to no one. Surviving constant and bloody combat as a gladiator, soldier and pirate had given Romulus an unshakeable belief in himself.

And helped me realise what I am, he thought proudly. I am a Roman. Not a slave. And my father is a nobleman.

Beside him, unnoticed, Tarquinius looked on in approval.

Romulus sighed. It was pointless thinking like that. Without proof of his status as a citizen, he would always be open to the charge of being a slave. The tattoo of Mithras on his upper right arm could not entirely conceal the scar where his brand had been. All it would take was an accusation from someone like Novius. No doubt there would be plenty of men like him among the beleaguered soldiers within the city. Romulus’ new-found confidence soured. ‘What are they doing here?’ he asked.

‘Could the Roman civil war have spread this far?’ the bestiarius asked, stroking his beard.

‘Possibly,’ replied the haruspex. ‘But there is no wind, so the smoke is rising in a straight line. I cannot tell much.’

There was a long silence as they pondered the significance of Tarquinius’ words. Naturally, Hiero was very unhappy. It was he who stood to lose out if normal port business had been affected by any trouble in the city. Yet the presence of Roman soldiers in Alexandria affected them all. Romulus and Tarquinius needed a vessel that would carry them to Italy. They didn’t want to attract any untoward attention.

His mind working overtime, the bestiarius spoke first. ‘Are they Pompey’s men, or Caesar’s?’

Tarquinius frowned. ‘Somehow I sense the presence of both men in the city. The struggle is not over yet.’

‘Who cares?’ remarked Romulus angrily. ‘Let’s wait here until it all calms down. We have supplies, and water. There’s no need to rush in and get ourselves killed. Normal trading will resume as soon as the dust has settled.’ With plenty of maritime experience, the friends would have little problem finding a ship home. The fact that they had been part of the bestiarius’ expedition would make them even more valuable as crew to any captain with intentions of carrying wild animals. And by concealing their armour and weapons, it would be easy enough to avoid unwanted scrutiny.

At this, Hiero grew agitated. ‘I can’t sit here like a fool. Do you have any idea of how much food those beasts consume every day?’ he demanded. ‘If Tarquinius is correct, the best policy might be to move on. Journey to another port.’

‘There is another option,’ said Tarquinius.

They both turned to him.

‘Wait until it gets dark and then check it out for ourselves.’

Romulus began to feel uneasy, but Hiero’s face grew eager.

‘We could reconnoitre the situation. Talk to the locals.’

‘That sounds risky,’ challenged Romulus. Relations between him and Tarquinius were still strained thanks to the haruspex’ repeated refusals to explain why he had left Italy.

‘For seven years we have lived and breathed constant danger,’ Tarquinius answered calmly. ‘And yet here we are.’

Romulus feared the faraway look in Tarquinius’ eyes. ‘Carrhae and Margiana just happened though,’ he cried. ‘We had to deal with those situations as they happened. This can be avoided!’

‘My destiny is to enter Alexandria, Romulus,’ said Tarquinius solemnly. ‘I cannot turn away now.’

Hiero’s gaze switched eagerly from one to the other, fascinated.

Romulus felt unhappy at the prospect of walking into an unfamiliar city that was at war. And the air currents he had seen over Alexandria were full of dark possibilities. He stared at Tarquinius, whose face was set. It was futile to argue with him. Unwilling to look again at the sky over the city himself, Romulus hung his head. Mithras, protect us, he prayed. Jupiter, do not forget your faithful servants.

Hiero was oblivious to the deep emotions flowing between them. ‘Good,’ he proclaimed. ‘I can think of no better men for the job.’

Neither Tarquinius nor Romulus replied. The former had fallen deep into thought. The latter was struggling to control his fears.

Alexandria awaited.

The couple’s rooms were large and airy, the floors covered with thick carpets, the furniture made of ebony and inlaid with silver. Long, column-filled and painted corridors led to a succession of similar chambers interspersed with courtyards and gardens. These last were filled with fountains and statues of the bizarre Egyptian gods. Everywhere the windows afforded stunning views of the Pharos, the lighthouse. Even these could not make Fabiola like Alexandria. Egypt was an alien place, full of strange people and customs. The pale-skinned servants who bowed and scraped obsequiously were driving her to distraction. And luxurious surroundings could only do so much to dispel her claustrophobia. After weeks of being cooped up indoors, she was struggling not to despair. Nor could she go on avoiding Caesar for ever.

Fabiola listened to the baying mob outside. Although the sound had grown familiar, it still chilled her blood.

Sextus gave a reassuring look, which helped a little.

Brutus also saw her glance at the shuttered window. ‘Don’t worry, my darling,’ he said. ‘There are four cohorts just outside. The rabble can’t get anywhere near us.’

Something inside Fabiola snapped. ‘No,’ she cried, ‘but we can’t go out either! We’re trapped like rats in a sewer because Caesar bit off more than he can damn well chew.’

‘Fabiola-’ Brutus began, his face strained.

‘I’m right, and you know it. Once he knew Pompey was dead, Caesar sauntered in here as if the place were his,’ she retorted hotly. ‘Is it any surprise that the Egyptians didn’t like it?’

Her lover fell silent. His general’s habit of acting so fast that his enemies were caught off-guard almost always worked. This time, Brutus had to admit, it had not.

Fabiola grew even more indignant. ‘And to let his lictores clear the path before him? Is Caesar the king of Egypt now?’

Docilosa looked worried. This was dangerous.

‘Lower your voice,’ Brutus ordered. ‘And calm down.’

Fabiola did as he said. Other senior officers were billeted nearby and might overhear. It was pointless losing control, she thought. A waste of energy.

Rather than take his entire army to Egypt, Caesar had split it into three unequal parts, sending the larger portions back to Italy and into Asia Minor, where their missions were to enforce the peace. Meanwhile, he himself was to pursue Pompey. This decision had not augured well for their arrival in Alexandria. And so it had proved. Sailing in not long after Pharsalus with about three thousand men, Caesar had ordered his ships to anchor safely offshore until he knew what type of reception the Egyptians would offer him. When a pilot vessel emerged a short time later, its crew was instructed to carry the news of his arrival to Alexandria’s ruling officials. Their reply was swift. As Caesar landed, he was greeted by a royal messenger who solemnly presented him with a package.

In it were Pompey’s signet ring, and his head.

Full of sorrow, Caesar promised revenge on those who had killed his former friend and ally. Ultimately, it might have served his purpose for Pompey to die, but Caesar was not the cold-blooded killer some Republicans made him out to be. His clemency towards the senior officers who had surrendered at Pharsalus had been remarkable. And his very public grief for Pompey was genuine. Perhaps it was this pain which led to his use of his lictores upon their arrival, thought Fabiola. But Caesar’s move went down badly with the locals, and things had grown worse from there. Although the quarrelling Ptolemy XIII and Cleopatra were both absent, the city was no walkover for an invading force. The local population did not take kindly to foreign soldiers invading their streets, or to their royalty’s palaces being seized. When Caesar had two of the ministers responsible for Pompey’s murder executed in public, the simmering resentment created by his arrogance flared into open anger. Aided by the Alexandrian mob, the Ptolemaic garrison began to launch daring attacks on the foreign troops. It started with barrages of rocks and broken pottery, but soon progressed to more deadly violence. Using their intimate knowledge of the city, the Egyptians cut off and annihilated a number of Roman patrols over the space of a few days. Almost overnight, the entire place turned into a no-go area. In a humiliating climb-down, Caesar was forced to withdraw his outnumbered legionaries into one of the royal palaces near the docks. There, with all the approaches blocked by barricades, they remained.

After two years of constant marching and fighting, their time in Alexandria was meant to be an opportunity to relax. Instead, confined by the unrest to their quarters, Fabiola had been brooding constantly about Caesar. In her mind, his sexual assault on her in Ravenna utterly proved his guilt. And her parentage. The latter discovery had not afforded her any of the joy that might be expected in such circumstances. In its place, Fabiola was filled with a dark, vicious satisfaction. After years of searching, she had been granted one of her most desired wishes. Now her revenge had to be plotted, but she wanted far more than to slip a sharp knife between Caesar’s ribs one night. It was not that Fabiola cared whether she died in the attempt. She did not. With Romulus in all likelihood dead, what purpose was there in living? No, her restraint was because Caesar did not deserve a swift end. Like her mother’s in the salt mines, his had to be a lingering death, full of suffering. Preferably at the hands of those he trusted most. Yet Fabiola had to be careful. Since Alesia, Caesar did not trust her and keeping Brutus happy in the face of his master’s disapproval was a task in itself.

Currently, however, the most likely risk was that an Egyptian rabble would tear them all to pieces. For someone who wanted to engineer a man’s death with precision, it was immensely frustrating. Here Fabiola could do nothing other than work on Brutus, and her resentment was reaching critical levels.

Fierce street battles were still raging daily. While a type of status quo had been reached, Caesar and his small force were cut off from his triremes, their only way out of the situation.

‘Help is on its way from Pergamum and Judaea,’ offered Brutus. ‘It will arrive in a matter of weeks.’

‘Really?’ cried Fabiola. ‘That can’t be certain, or there’d be no need for this pointless attack on the harbour.’

‘We have to regain access to our ships. And seizing Pharos Island will give us an advantage over the Egyptians,’ he replied, the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘You know that I cannot disobey a direct order.’

Tread carefully, thought Fabiola. Although he had been deeply affected by her words after Pharsalus, Brutus still loved Caesar. ‘I’m worried about you.’ She was not lying. Hand-to-hand combat at night was very dangerous, and the Roman casualties had been heavy. Brutus was dear to her, but he was also her sponsor and protector. Without him, Fabiola would lose all the security in her life. Prostitution would beckon again. It might only be for one client, but the reality would be no different. Fabiola did not allow herself even to contemplate this option.

Brutus’ face softened. ‘Mars will protect me,’ he said. ‘He always does.’

‘And Mithras,’ replied Fabiola. She was gratified by his pleased nod.

‘Caesar plans to do more than just regain the harbour tonight. He’s sending me back to Rome so I can take counsel with Marcus Antonius, and assemble more reinforcements,’ Brutus revealed. A sudden scowl twisted his mouth. ‘He also ordered me to leave you here. Apparently you’ll distract me from my duties.’

Fabiola stared at him, aghast at that possibility. ‘What did you say?’

‘I stood up to him. Argued the point,’ answered Brutus stoutly. ‘Politely, of course.’

‘And?’

‘He wasn’t too happy,’ grinned Brutus. ‘But I’m one of his best officers, so he gave in eventually. Happy now?’

Surprised and delighted, Fabiola hugged him fiercely. She had had enough of this hot, foreign place.

And if Caesar survived, she would be waiting for him. In Rome.

By late afternoon, the caravan was encamped in a secure location by Lake Mareotis, which flowed right to the city walls. Donning their armour and weapons, the two friends readied themselves as best they could. They had made use of badly made shields and shoddy iron helmets while serving with Ahmed, but these had been left behind on the dhow.

‘I suppose we should be grateful,’ said Romulus, throwing a light woollen cloak over his shoulders. He felt naked at the prospect of meeting hostile troops without proper equipment. ‘No one will take a second look at us.’

‘Exactly. That’s the point,’ replied Tarquinius, who was wearing one as well. He pulled out a silver chain which always hung round his neck. On it was a small gold ring, which was finely decorated with a scarab beetle. For the first time that Romulus could remember, the haruspex put it on.

‘What’s that for?’

Tarquinius smiled. ‘It will bring us good luck.’

‘We need plenty of that,’ said Romulus, casting his eyes at the heavens. Now prepared to interpret what he saw, Romulus could read nothing, and his friend would answer no questions at all. Once again, he had to trust in the gods. It was a completely helpless feeling, but Romulus gritted his teeth and readied himself. There was no other way.

Calling down the blessings of his own deities, Hiero also provided them with a good description of the city layout. This would be invaluable. ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ the old bestiarius counselled. ‘Find out what you can and come back here safely.’

‘We will,’ replied Tarquinius, his face impassive.

They all gripped forearms in the Roman manner.

It felt as if they would never see Hiero again, and Romulus could bear it no longer.

‘Have you ever had dealings with Roman merchants?’

The bestiarius looked surprised. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ve done business with them all. Noblemen, merchants, lanistae.’

‘Anyone called Gemellus?’

Hiero scratched his head. ‘My memory is not what it was.’

‘It’s important,’ said Romulus, leaning closer.

Curious, Hiero decided not to ask why. There was a fierce, intimidating look in the other’s eyes. He thought for a moment. ‘Gemellus. ’

Romulus waited.

‘I remember,’ the bestiarius said at last. ‘From the Aventine?’

A pulse hammered in Romulus’ throat. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Like me.’

Tarquinius frowned.

‘A friend of yours?’ demanded Hiero.

‘Not exactly,’ Romulus replied, keeping his tone neutral. ‘Merely an old acquaintance.’

The bestiarius did not react to the obvious lie. It was nothing to him. ‘Gemellus, yes. He invested a third share in a venture of mine nearly ten years ago.’

‘That’s about right,’ agreed Romulus, feeling a pang of deep sadness. Fabiola had been there too, eavesdropping on Gemellus while he planned his involvement.

‘The whole affair was cursed from start to finish.’ Hiero scowled at the memory. ‘Many animals seemed to know where the traps were, and those we did catch were poor specimens. I lost dozens of men to strange fevers and afflictions. Then the Nile flooded on the way back, so it took twice the normal time to reach Alexandria.’ He paused for effect.

Romulus nodded in apparent sympathy. Inside, though, he was fuming. Even a few wild beasts would make a man’s fortune. No doubt Gemellus was still enjoying the proceeds.

‘That’s not all,’ sighed the old man. ‘Often I sell the animals on the dock at Alexandria, but Gemellus wrote demanding that we take them to Italy.’

Tarquinius sucked in a breath, feeling rather stupid. How could he have not realised before? A winter afternoon in Rome, eight years earlier. Gemellus, a merchant from the Aventine, desperately wanting a prophecy. The bad omens that resulted from it. Ships with their holds full of wild beasts, crossing the sea.

Romulus was so caught up in the bestiarius’ tale that he did not notice. ‘That makes perfect sense. You’d get a far better price there.’

Hiero nodded. ‘For that reason, I foolishly agreed to his request. Thank the gods that I travelled on a lightly laden liburnian, not one of the cargo vessels.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There were freak storms on the voyage across,’ revealed the bestiarius gloomily. ‘Every last transport sank and all the animals drowned. I lost an absolute fortune.’

Tarquinius brought back every possible detail of the merchant whom he had met outside Jupiter’s temple on the Capitoline Hill. Ill-tempered, fat and depressed, Gemellus had been crushed by his revelations. The last of these had been the most powerful. One day there will be a knock on your door. At the time, there had been far more important things on the haruspex’ mind, and he had not really pondered the significance of what he had seen. An unknown stranger’s worries were of little concern to him. Now though, it made perfect sense. Gemellus had been Romulus’ owner.

Oblivious to Tarquinius, Romulus could barely conceal his exultation. ‘And Gemellus?’

Hiero shrugged. ‘The same. His investment of one hundred and twenty thousand sestertii is still lying on the bottom of the Mediterranean.’

‘Gemellus is ruined?’ Laughing aloud, Romulus clapped the bestiarius on the shoulder. ‘That’s the best news I’ve had in years!’

‘Why?’ Hiero looked confused. ‘What’s it to you?’

Guilt suffused Tarquinius that he had not made the connection before, and told Romulus. It was a failing of his to focus entirely on grand issues when smaller ones, like this, could make such a difference. Yet he rarely told his protege anything. I have become too secretive, he thought sadly. And I love him like a son. More remorse washed over Tarquinius. Deep down, the haruspex knew that his fear of revealing why he had fled Italy was the cause of his reticence. Wary of letting this information slip, he had deprived Romulus of a possible source of hope.

I have to tell him. Before it’s too late.

Hiero’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did Gemellus owe you money?’

‘Something like that,’ said Romulus evasively.

The old man waited to see if any more information would be forthcoming.

It was not, and the two friends prepared to leave.

The last piece of news had altered Romulus’ black mood for the better. Tarquinius was pleased by this. Whatever the night held in store would be better faced in good humour. Ill fortune and the gods’ displeasure were sometimes directed at those who entered dangerous situations fearing the worst. Chance and destiny favoured the bold, thought the haruspex.

Given what he had seen in the sky, it was the only way to think. More than twenty years after Olenus had done so, Tarquinius had read his own fate. If he was correct, the next few hours would reveal all.

And somehow he would find the right time to tell Romulus.

Night had finally fallen, and the temperature was dropping. Overhead, a clear sky promised at least some visibility in the dark streets. Wall-mounted torches illuminated the large, colonnaded courtyard, which was packed with four strengthened cohorts of legionaries. Caesar was committing almost half of his forces in Alexandria to this manoeuvre. The general had lost none of his daring.

Wrapped in a warm, hooded cloak, Fabiola stared at the silver eagle. She had rarely been so close to one before, and was deeply stirred by it. Since her homa-induced vision, the metal bird had come to represent not just Rome, but the last of her hopes that Romulus was still alive. Tears pricked the corners of Fabiola’s eyes, but she wiped them away. This was her private grief and she had no wish to share it again with Brutus. Thankfully, her lover was out of earshot, conferring with Caesar and another staff officer.

It was not long until they were ready. To light their way, every fourth man had been issued with a pitch-soaked torch. Marching in darkness might have attracted less attention, but soldiers needed to see enemies to kill them. Seeing each other’s faces also helped to keep up morale. Caesar was well aware that the setbacks of the previous weeks had dented his legionaries’ usual confidence. He gave a short but stirring speech, invoking Mars and Jupiter, and reminding his men how they had defeated far greater armies than faced them here.

A cheer rose into the air, but was instantly quelled by the centurions.

Without further ado, the gates were opened, and two cohorts marched out to clear the barricades on each side of the entrance. Following the blast from an officer’s whistle to sound the all-clear, the third unit emerged, led by the aquilifer carrying the eagle. This was followed by Caesar, Brutus and Fabiola, the senior officers and a hand-picked century of veterans. Also in their midst were Docilosa and the faithful Sextus. The fourth cohort was last to exit. At once the doors slammed shut behind them.

Fabiola felt a tremor of fear. They were on their own.

Beside her, Brutus’ eyes were glinting in the dim light. Seeing her apprehension, he kissed her cheek reassuringly. ‘Courage, my darling,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll be at sea within the hour.’

She nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the silver eagle. Torchlight bounced and reflected off its polished wings, giving it a distinctly forbidding air. It was a powerful talisman, and Fabiola took strength from it. From the fervent looks being thrown in the eagle’s direction, it was clear that many of the men did too. Even Docilosa was muttering a prayer to it.

In close formation, the legionaries headed towards the harbour. Thanks to Alexandria’s wide avenues, they were able to move at double pace. Impressive buildings passed by on either side: temples and government offices. They were constructed on a massive scale, greater than most similar structures in Rome. Rows of thick stone columns formed their porticoes, each the height of many men. Even the doorways were enormous. The walls were inscribed with hieroglyphs from floor to ceiling: dramatic representations recounting the country’s glorious past. Immense painted statues of the half-human, half-animal Egyptian gods stood before many buildings, their dark eyes blankly watching the passing soldiers. Fountains pattered to themselves and the palm trees moved in a gentle breeze.

Not a person was to be seen. All was silent.

It felt too good to be true.

It was.

Rounding a corner on to the quayside, they found their path had been blocked by waiting lines of heavily armed enemy soldiers.

Many were dressed similarly to Caesar’s men, which felt disconcerting to Fabiola. Yet the reason was simple, according to Brutus, her adviser on all things military. After a series of humiliating defeats a century before, Egypt had stopped using its Macedonian-like hoplites in favour of troops trained like legionaries. In addition, a Roman force which had arrived in Alexandria seven years before had largely gone native. This meant that recent confrontations between the two sides were often evenly matched. If anything, it was the Egyptian soldiers who had had the advantage, fighting as they were to dislodge the Romans from their own city. And tonight, even more forces had been gathered. Behind the enemy legionaries stood rank upon rank of slingers, archers and Nubian light skirmishers, their weapons ready. This was to be a crushing defeat upon the invaders.

Caesar’s lead cohort ground to a sudden halt, forcing the units behind to stop.

Fabiola’s first view was across the water to the lighthouse. It was a dramatic sight, one which never failed to impress. Built on a projecting spur of Pharos Island, the immense white marble tower was awe-inspiring. A single-storey complex surrounded its great base, which was square. Statues of the Greek gods and mythical sea creatures decorated the whole outer surface of this building. Entrance to the lighthouse itself was gained by a wide ramp, which was visible above the outer complex. Even now, Fabiola could see laden mules toiling up it, carrying firewood for the huge fire which burned high above. Many floors up, the second section was octagonal, with the final part being circular. The room at the very apex was formed by supportive pillars, and contained vast polished bronze mirrors. These reflected sunlight during the day and flames at night. On the roof of this chamber was a large statue of Zeus, greatest of the Greek deities.

Fabiola eventually tore her eyes away. The blaze at the top of the Pharos illuminated the main harbour quite well. Grand buildings and warehouses lined the quayside. A dense forest of masts clustered together, belonging to the Egyptian fleet which had been ferrying soldiers into the city. The water was so deep that even the largest vessel could moor here. Groups of sailors filled the ships’ decks, shouting and gesticulating at the confrontation about to be played out before them.

Craning his head from side to side, Brutus cursed loudly and vigorously.

The Egyptians had chosen the site for their ambush well. Thanks to a high curtain wall on the right-hand side, there was only room for two cohorts on the dock. The others were trapped in the wide thoroughfare which opened on to the harbour. The instant that these men came to a halt, loud battle cries filled the air. From the rear came the familiar hissing sound of arrows, followed immediately by the screams of those who had been hit.

‘The bastards must have been hiding in the side streets, sir,’ shouted Brutus.

‘To prevent us withdrawing,’ said Caesar calmly. ‘The fools. As if I would run away!’

‘What shall we do, sir?’

Before he could answer, guttural orders from the Egyptian officers rang out. A volley of stones flew into the night sky, causing heavy casualties among the unprepared legionaries. Following close behind came a shower of javelins, invisibly arcing up and then scything down in a second torrent of death. Scores of men were hit, many fatally. Others had an eye taken out, or were simply knocked to the ground, wounded or concussed.

Ten steps from Fabiola, a centurion collapsed. He kicked spasmodically and then lay still.

She stared at him in horror.

The officer had just taken off his horsehair-crested helmet to wipe the sweat from his brow. Now an egg-shaped depression visible through his short hair was leaking a mixture of blood and clear fluid. His skull had been smashed.

‘Shields up!’ roared Caesar.

Grabbing a discarded Brutus darted to Fabiola’s side and drew her to him. With it over her head, she was able to witness the Roman legions in action at first hand. Although the volleys of missiles had caused many casualties, the other soldiers did not panic. The gaps in the ranks closed swiftly, and the next stream of stones and javelins clattered down harmlessly on their shields.scutum,

‘We can’t stay here like this,’ said Fabiola. ‘They’ll slaughter us.’

‘Wait.’ Brutus smiled. ‘Watch.’

‘Those with torches, hand them to the men behind. To the second cohort,’ ordered Caesar. ‘Quickly!’

His command was obeyed at once.

‘Front ranks,’ Caesar shouted. ‘Ready your pila! Aim long!’

Hundreds of men drew their right arms back.

‘Loose!’

The Roman response rose up in a steep trajectory, flying high over the Egyptian legionaries. As Fabiola watched, the metal-tipped rain landed among the unarmoured slingers and skirmishers, striking them down in great swathes. Distracted by the screams of their comrades to the rear, the enemy troops’ front ranks visibly wavered. They were given no chance to recover.

‘First cohort, charge!’ Caesar’s order rang out crisp and clear. ‘Loose pila at will!’

His men had followed their general for years, through thick and thin. From Gaul to Germania, Britannia to Hispania and Greece, he had never failed them.

A swelling roar of anger left their throats and the front ranks swarmed forward at the Egyptians. Javelins were hurled as they ran, lodging in enemy scuta and injuring scores more soldiers.

Caesar was not finished. ‘Those in the second cohort, ready your torches.’

Still Fabiola did not understand, but a huge smile was spreading across Brutus’ face.

‘Aim at the ships! I want their sails to catch fire!’

Caesar’s men bellowed their approval.

‘Loose!’

Turning end over end in graceful, golden cartwheels of flame, dozens of torches flew through the darkness. It was one of the most beautiful things Fabiola had ever seen. And the most destructive. Loud screams rose from the ships and gilded barges as sailors were struck by the burning pieces of wood. There were muffled thumps as some torches landed on the vessels’ decks and hissing sounds as others fell into the water.

Just a few caught in the tightly furled sails. It was enough. Dried out by the sunshine and sea breezes, the heavy fabric was bone dry. Lit for some time, the pitch on the torches was red hot. It was a perfect mix.

Here and there, tell-tale yellow glowing patches appeared. They spread fast, reaching the masts within a matter of moments. Fabiola could not help but admire Caesar’s ingenuity.

Wails of dismay rose from the watching Egyptian soldiers. Their fleet was going to burn.

And then the legionaries hit them.

Reaching Alexandria had not proved difficult. After a long march in late-afternoon sunshine, the two friends had arrived at the southern outer walls. Gaining entry was similarly easy. Plenty of guards were on duty, bored-looking Egyptians in Roman-style mail and helmets, but they showed little interest in a pair of dusty travellers. Closing the Gate of the Sun at sundown was of more concern. Although keen to find out what was going on, Romulus and Tarquinius had not asked any questions of the sentries. It was not worth the potential problems they might encounter if their own armour and weapons were discovered. They would have to find out what they could from ordinary citizens.

But there had been little activity within the city. In fact, it was almost deserted. Even the Argeus, the main street which ran north to south, was virtually empty. A few people scuttled here and there between the obelisks, fountains and palm trees on its central parade, but the usual stalls selling food, drink, pottery and metalwork were abandoned, their wooden surfaces bare. Even the huge temples were vacant of worshippers.

It looked as if Tarquinius’ predictions were right: there had been fighting.

Their suspicions were raised further by the sight of Egyptian troops assembling outside what looked like a large barracks. Aware that they could be regarded as enemies, the pair ducked out of sight into an alleyway. More soldiers filled the next street as well. Using Hiero’s directions and the position of the sunlight, they worked their way through the rectangular grid of thoroughfares towards the centre. Romulus’ uneasiness grew steadily as the distance from the southern gate increased. But they could find no one to talk to. And Tarquinius was like a man driven: his expression eager, his pace fast.

By the time darkness fell, they had passed the tree-covered Paneium, a man-made hill dedicated to the god Pan, and the immense temple to Serapis, the god invented by the Ptolemies. Romulus was awestruck by Alexandria’s architecture and layout. Unlike Rome, which had only two streets wider than an ordinary ox-cart, this city had been built on a grand scale to an imaginative master plan. Rather than single impressive buildings or shrines dotted here and there, whole avenues of them were laid out. Everywhere there were grand squares, splashing fountains and well-designed gardens. Amazed by the Argeus, Romulus was bowled over by the Canopic Way, the main avenue which ran east to west straight across the city. At its intersection with the Argeus, he was able to appreciate its extraordinary length thanks to Alexandria’s flat terrain. The junction itself was dominated by a magnificent square filled with an obelisk and a huge fountain, which was decorated with marvellous statues of water creatures, real and mythical.

Romulus had been especially thrilled to see the outside of the Sema, the huge walled enclosure that contained the tombs of all the Ptolemy kings, as well as that of Alexander the Great. According to Tarquinius, his body was still on view inside, encased in an alabaster sarcophagus. He would have dearly loved to pay his respects to the greatest general who had ever lived, in whose footsteps he and Tarquinius had marched with the Forgotten Legion. But Romulus had to content himself with just seeing the site of Alexander’s final resting place. It helped him to feel that, in some way, his life had come full circle. Italy was not far away. What a pity Brennus was not with them too, Romulus thought sadly. But that had not been his fate.

Like all the other public buildings though, the Sema was shut, its tall wooden doors barred. As the sun set, its dying light turned the structure’s white marble an ominous blood-red colour.

At the same time, a bright yellow glow lit up the sky to the north.

Romulus stared in shock.

‘The lighthouse,’ said Tarquinius. ‘It can be seen thirty miles out to sea.’

There was nothing like that in the whole Republic, thought Romulus in amazement. The Egyptians were obviously a people of great ability. Everything he had seen here today proved that. And now, as it had done with so many other civilisations, Rome had come to conquer. Except, as Romulus was shortly to discover, things were not going to plan.

‘How far is the harbour?’

‘A few blocks.’ Tarquinius grinned boyishly. ‘The library is near too. Tens of thousands of books all in one place. I have to see it!’

Romulus was momentarily infected by his friend’s enthusiasm. But his fear soon returned as shouts and the clash of arms reached their ears. The noise was not far away, and it was coming from the direction that they were heading in. ‘Let’s go back,’ he urged. ‘We’ve seen enough.’

Unslinging his battleaxe, the haruspex kept walking.

‘Tarquinius! It’s too dangerous.’

There was no response.

Romulus cursed and ran after him. His friend had been right so many times before. What could he do but follow?

Each man’s destiny was his own.

It did not take long to reach the western edge of the main harbour, which was still peaceful. Here it was separated from a smaller one by a raised, man-made causeway running out to Pharos Island. At each end was a bridge which allowed ships to pass on one side of the port to the other.

‘The Heptastadion,’ revealed Tarquinius. ‘It’s almost a mile long.’

Romulus could not take his eyes off the lighthouse, which was taller and more magnificent than anything he had ever seen. ‘That’s a marvel,’ he muttered.

The haruspex watched him indulgently for a moment, but then his face grew serious. ‘Look,’ he said.

In the small anchorage to the left of the Heptastadion were nearly two score triremes. A cohort of soldiers was on guard nearby, protection for the vulnerable docked vessels.

Romulus gasped as the familiar sound of Latin carried through the cool air. There was no mistaking the troops’ identity. They were Roman.

‘Caesar’s men.’

‘Are you sure?’ Romulus asked, excitement running through him.

Tarquinius nodded, sensing that something important was about to happen. Precisely what, he could not tell.

Not that it mattered whom the legionaries served, thought Romulus. It made little difference to them which Roman general had a presence in Alexandria.

Renewed sounds of combat came from their right and they turned their heads. A few hundred paces away, past some warehouses, stood a large group of Egyptian soldiers. There were archers, slingers and light infantry to the rear, with legionaries at the front. All of them were facing away from the two friends. As they watched, a volley of stones and javelins shot up into the air, disappearing beyond the front ranks. Loud screams erupted as they landed.

‘They’ve ambushed our lot,’ cried Romulus. His mind was telling him that they should escape, but his heart wanted to fight with his countrymen. What’s the point? he thought. This is not my war.

‘You will have a choice very soon,’ said Tarquinius.

Startled, the young soldier looked around.

‘I sense a link between you and Caesar. Will you embrace or reject it?’

Before he could respond, Romulus heard the words ‘Ready above the din. His eyes were drawn back to the fighting.pila!’

Roman javelins thrown in response to the Egyptian volley came showering down on the unprotected slingers and skirmishers. There was a moment’s confusion and then they heard the legionaries charge. At the same time, burning torches were tossed out into the harbour on to the ships tethered below. Within the space of thirty heartbeats, plenty of sails were aflame.

Romulus admired Caesar’s tactics, which caused instant panic in the Egyptian ranks. So there was a connection between them? He watched the fire spread in a kind of daze.

‘No,’ hissed Tarquinius. ‘Not like that.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘If it moves down here, those will burn.’ The haruspex pointed at the large warehouses nearby.

Romulus did not understand.

‘That’s the library,’ said Tarquinius, his face twisted in anguish. ‘The ancient books in there are totally irreplaceable.’

Horrified, Romulus turned back. Already a quarter of the Egyptian ships were on fire, and the blaze was spreading fast. It was easy to see how the library might burn. Yet there was nothing they could do.

Tarquinius studied the conflagration for a few heartbeats and then his eyes opened wide with grief and awe. His faint hope that the Etruscan civilisation would see a new ascendancy was a false one. When the civil war was over, Rome would grow bigger and even more powerful, suffering nothing else to grow in its shadow. And Caesar would play a major role in beginning this process. He sighed, thinking that was all there was to see. But as ever, there was more. It was now he must tell Romulus, before it was too late.

Romulus was getting anxious. It was time to go. ‘Come on,’ he cried.

‘You asked why I left Italy in a hurry,’ the haruspex said suddenly.

‘Gods above,’ muttered Romulus. First the revelation about Caesar, then this. ‘Don’t tell me now. It can wait.’

‘No, it can’t,’ Tarquinius replied with a real sense of urgency. ‘I killed Rufus Caelius.’

‘What?’ Romulus spun around to look at the haruspex.

‘The nobleman outside the Lupanar.’

All the background noise died away as Romulus struggled to take in the impossible. ‘You? How.?’ His voice trailed away.

‘It was me,’ Tarquinius hissed. ‘I was there, sitting near the doorway. Waiting for him.’

Romulus’ eyes widened with shock. There had been a small hooded and cloaked figure by the brothel. At the time, he had presumed it was a leper or a beggar.

‘But when Caelius came out,’ Tarquinius went on, ‘you picked a fight with him. I held back for a moment, but the breeze told me that I had to act fast. So I stabbed him.’

Romulus could not even speak. His hunch had been correct all along: the crack on the head he had delivered had not killed Caelius. Instead, Tarquinius had delivered the fatal blow. Confusion mixed with rage and Romulus’ mind reeled with the enormity of it. He and Brennus need not have fled Italy at all. ‘Why?’ he shouted. ‘Tell me why.’

‘Caelius murdered the man who taught me haruspicy. Olenus, my mentor.’

Romulus wasn’t listening. ‘You ruined my life that night,’ he retorted furiously. ‘And what about Brennus? Have you thought about that?’

Tarquinius did not reply. His dark eyes were full of sorrow.

‘Making prophecies is one thing,’ Romulus went on, outraged now. ‘Men can choose to believe or disbelieve what you say. But committing murder and letting an innocent man take the blame, that’s directly interfering with someone’s life. Mithras above! Did you have any idea of the effect you might have?’

‘Of course,’ replied Tarquinius quietly.

‘Then why did you do it?’ Romulus screamed. ‘I might have earned the rudis by now, and found my family. And Brennus would be alive, damn you!’

‘I’m sorry,’ faltered Tarquinius. Real sadness filled his face.

‘That’s not nearly enough.’

‘I should have told you long ago.’

‘Why didn’t you then?’ Romulus shot back bitterly.

‘How could I?’ Tarquinius replied. ‘Would you have kept as a friend the man responsible for all your troubles?’

There was no answer to that.

And then the gods turned their faces away.

The heavy tramp of men marching in unison came from behind them. It was very close. Sprinting to the corner, Romulus risked a look around it. The street down which they had come was entirely filled with approaching Egyptian troops. He spat a curse. They were marching to the aid of their comrades, or to attack the triremes. In the process, the soldiers had unknowingly blocked off their escape route.

They had two choices: to flee over the bridge and along the Heptastadion and risk being completely trapped, or to take their chances along the waterfront. Find a small alleyway to hide in until the battle had passed.

Tarquinius materialised at his shoulder.

Romulus clenched his jaw until it hurt. He wanted to throttle the haruspex, but this was no time to continue the feud. ‘What shall we do?’

‘Head for the island,’ Tarquinius replied. ‘We’ll be safe there until dawn.’

Shedding their cloaks, they turned and ran for the Heptastadion, some two hundred paces away.

Shouts rose from the triremes as they were spotted. Although they were illuminated against the light from the huge conflagration, Romulus was confident that they were beyond javelin range.

They sprinted on.

More cries rose from the Egyptian soldiers who had just reached the quayside.

Romulus glanced over his shoulder and could see some of them pointing in their direction.

‘Don’t stop,’ yelled Tarquinius. ‘They’ve got more to worry about than us.’

One hundred paces.

Romulus began to think that they would make it.

Then he saw the sentry picket: a squad of ten Roman legionaries standing on the edge of the Heptastadion, their attention focused on the heavy fighting. He glanced over himself. Caesar’s cohorts had smashed through the Egyptian lines and were pounding along the dock towards their triremes. The sentries cheered at the sight.

Mithras and Jupiter, Romulus thought frantically, let us pass unseen.

Tarquinius’ gaze rose to the heavens. His eyes widened at what he saw.

Fifty paces.

The gravel crunched beneath their caligae.

Thirty paces.

One of the legionaries half turned, muttering something in a comrade’s ear.

He saw them.

Twenty paces.

Now they were well within range of the sentries’ javelins; things happened very fast. A single pilum hummed through the air towards them, but landed harmlessly in the dirt. Another five followed, also falling short. The next four, thrown by men eager to bring down potential enemies, flew too long.

A pair per man, thought Romulus. Ten left. Still too many. He cringed inwardly, knowing that the best shots always held on to their pila until the last moment. At this range, the legionaries could hardly miss. And that was before drawing their gladii and charging them down. They could not make it.

Tarquinius realised the same thing. ‘Stop, you fools,’ he shouted in Latin. ‘We’re Romans.’ He slowed to a stop and raised his hands in the air.

Quickly Romulus did the same.

Remarkably, no more pila were launched. Instead, the sentries ran over, shields and swords at the ready. In the lead was a middle-aged optio. Within a few heartbeats they were surrounded by a ring of scuta, the sharp points of gladii poking between them. Hard, unshaven faces suspiciously studied the two friends.

‘Deserters?’ snarled the optio, looking at Romulus’ rusty chain mail and Tarquinius’ leather-bordered skirt. ‘Explain yourselves, fast.’

‘We work for a bestiarius, sir,’ Romulus explained smoothly. ‘Just got to Alexandria today, after being in the far south for months.’

‘Why are you creeping round like spies then?’ he demanded.

‘Our boss sent us in to check out the situation. We’re the only ones who can handle ourselves, see,’ replied Romulus with a knowing look. ‘But we got trapped by the fighting.’

The optio rubbed his chin for a moment. Romulus’ explanation wasn’t unreasonable. ‘And your weapons?’ he barked. ‘They’re Roman style, except for that thing.’ He pointed curiously at Tarquinius’ double-headed axe. ‘How come?’

Romulus panicked. He had no wish to call down the attention, or opprobrium, that admitting to being veterans of Crassus’ campaign would bring on them. But what could he say? Keeping silent was not an option.

To his relief, Tarquinius broke in. ‘Before the bestiarius, we served for a while in the Egyptian army, sir.’

‘Mercenaries, eh?’ growled the optio. ‘For those bastards?’

‘We knew nothing of any trouble with Caesar,’ added Romulus quickly. ‘As I said, we’ve been gone from the city for more than six months.’

‘Fair enough.’ His eyes flickered with satisfaction at their military appearance. ‘Right now we need every damn sword we can get.’

‘But. ’ said Romulus, not quite believing what he was hearing. ‘We want to get back to Italy.’

‘Don’t we all?’ asked the optio, to roars of laughter from his men.

‘We’re not in the army though,’ protested Romulus, fighting a sinking feeling.

‘You are now,’ he snarled. ‘Welcome to the Twenty-Eighth Legion.’

His soldiers cheered.

Romulus looked at Tarquinius, who gave a small, resigned shrug. Romulus scowled. The haruspex’ actions had led to this, had led to everything. There was no forgiveness in his heart, just a searing anger.

‘Don’t try and run,’ warned the optio. ‘These lads are free to kill you if you do.’

Romulus studied the circle of smirking faces. There was no mercy in any.

‘Remember the penalty for desertion is crucifixion. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ they both replied quietly. Miserably.

‘Cheer up,’ the optio said with a cruel smile. ‘Survive six years or so and you can leave.’

Bizarrely, Romulus took some heart at this. While the penalties for indiscipline in the military were savage, he was being treated like a Roman citizen, not a slave. Perhaps this way — in the legions — he could win acceptance. On his own, without Tarquinius.

Something drew Romulus’ eyes back to the dock.

Gaining momentum, Caesar’s legionaries had now pushed past the Egyptians whose arrival had caused the two friends to flee. While the first cohort pursued their demoralised enemies back into the city, the remainder were marching down to their triremes. Near the front marched an aquilifer, holding the legion’s silver eagle aloft. Romulus swelled with pride at the sight of it. Hurrying behind was a party of senior officers and centurions, recognisable by their transverse horsehair-crested helmets and red cloaks.

One of them could be Caesar, Romulus thought.

‘There’s our general,’ cried the optio, confirming his suspicion. ‘Let him know we’re here, boys.’

His men cheered.

Romulus frowned. There were two women in their midst too. Then a blinding flash of light seared his eyeballs and he looked around.

In the harbour, most of the Egyptian ships were burning. Long yellow tongues of flame were reaching across the narrow quay to lick hungrily at the library buildings. The immense conflagration lit up the whole scene.

Curious, Romulus turned back to stare at the newly arrived Romans, who were now no more than a hundred paces away. Along with some officers, the women had been helped on to the deck of the nearest ship. But other red-cloaked figures remained on the dock. Sailors were already loosening the trireme’s moorings, preparing to cast off into the harbour. Caesar was sending for reinforcements, thought Romulus, and sending his mistress and her servant away to safety.

Then one of the women pushed back the hood of her cloak.

Romulus gasped. It had been nine years, but there was no mistaking the features. She had grown up, but it was his twin sister. ‘Fabiola!’ he shouted.

No reaction.

‘Fabiola!’ Romulus bellowed at the top of his voice.

Her head turned, searching.

Lunging forward, Romulus managed to run a few steps before two legionaries blocked his way.

‘You’re going nowhere, scumbag,’ snarled one. ‘We’re on sentry duty until dawn.’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ cried Romulus. ‘That’s my sister over there. I have to speak to her.’

Derisive laughter filled his ears. ‘Really? I suppose Cleopatra’s your cousin, too?’

Helplessly, Romulus screamed the same words over and over. ‘Fabiola! It’s me, Romulus!’

Incredibly, amidst the press and the confusion she saw him. Long-haired, bearded and in rusty chain mail, he could have been mistaken for a lunatic, but Fabiola knew her brother at once. ‘Romulus?’ she yelled joyfully. ‘Is it you?’

‘Yes! I’m in the Twenty-Eighth Legion,’ he shouted, giving Fabiola the only clue he could think of.

His last three words were swallowed in the pandemonium around Fabiola. ‘What?’ she cried. ‘I can’t hear you.’

It was pointless trying to speak. Officers’ commands, sailors’ cries, and the pounding drum filled the air in a cacophony of sound.

Fabiola ran to Brutus’ side and muttered in his ear and an instant later, he was beckoning to the trierarch. And shouting at him.

Reluctantly the captain ordered his men to stop what they were doing. All activity on the deck ceased.

Romulus’ heart thumped with joy.

But then waves of screaming Egyptians emerged from the nearby side streets, called by their defeated soldiers from every slum and dirt-bound hovel to help drive out the Roman invaders. The legionaries suddenly had a major battle on their hands.

On the ship, Brutus looked helplessly at Fabiola. Sorrowfully. ‘We can’t stay. Our mission is too important,’ he said and turned to the trierarch. ‘As you were.’

Fabiola felt her knees begin to shake. With a supreme effort, she held herself upright, forced down the faintness. Take courage, she thought. Romulus is alive, and in the legions. He will return to Rome one day. Mithras will protect him. She raised a quivering hand in farewell. For now.

‘Cast off. Quickly!’

Hearing the shouted order, Romulus understood Fabiola’s gesture. Utter wretchedness filled him. There was to be no joyful reunion.

Pushed out into the harbour by long poles, the trireme turned ponderously. Slow drumbeats directed the sailors, and the three banks of oars dug alternately into the water, positioning the ship to leave. The trierarch paced up and down, shouting rapid-fire commands. Other crewmembers unlashed and prepared the deck catapults while the ship’s marines readied their weapons. Nothing lay between them and the open sea to the west, but they would be ready all the same.

The baying crowd of Egyptians was nearly at the dock. Moving fast, Caesar had marshalled his cohorts into a solid line across the Heptastadion. Just a few moments remained before the two sides clashed.

‘Let’s get over there. Every legionary will count against those whoresons,’ shouted the optio. ‘Draw swords!’

A dozen gladii hissed from their scabbards, including, instinctively, those of Romulus and Tarquinius.

‘At the double!’

Struggling to contain his emotions, Romulus glanced at the haruspex as they ran with the others. ‘Fabiola’s gone.’

‘Safely on her way back to Italy.’ Tarquinius found time to smile. ‘And your road there is clearer now.’

Italy, thought Romulus, readying himself for the fight.

My road to Rome.